The Dying Detective
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: and the Case of the Infuriatingly Loyal Blogger. Sherlock's injured. Severely injured. John's off his game and Sherlock trusts John more than either of them really knew he did. Spin-off to Sherlock's Trusting in He's Only Ever Human, but can be read seperately.


**The Dying Detective and the Case of the Infuriatingly Loyal Blogger**

"What are we doing here, Sherlock?" John muttered, slamming the cab door as he exited the cab after the detective.

"We're going to solve a case, John. What do we usually do when we go out? Well, you go out to chat up your girlfriends, but I'm not usually with you when you do that."

John sighed, ignoring the ribbing about his girlfriends. "I didn't even know that you had a case," he said instead, picking his way over the torn down police tape. "And we could have walked here. Why did we take a cab?"

"It shaved off three minutes. I'm cutting it close as it is."

"Cutting what close? Sherlock, what are we doing?"

"Remember what I said, John? That if we did a, well, not a news blackout, but I don't have a better word, and said that no weapon was found, the perpetrator would think that the police were being more dim than usual and he would just come back and take the weapon."

"Yes," John replied, nodding. "So, how do you know he's coming at this time?"

"Oh, John, how mundane your mind must be."

"I'm not sure if you just tried to see how many 'm's you could fit into that sentence or if it was unintentional."

"I don't speak in alliterations if I can help it, John. Now, lower your voice and follow me." He started into the building, only stopping and placing a hand against John's chest. "You have your revolver?"

"Yeah," John replied, frowning slightly. "Why? Is this going to end in a shootout?" But Sherlock had already continued into the darkened building, leaving John standing on the doorstep with a hand on his gun and a frown on his face. "Sherlock?" he hissed, following after him quickly.

The building was near silent. John didn't like it. He liked it less with Sherlock so far ahead of him. He did his best to catch up without making much noise; he managed fairly well until one of the floorboards creaked under foot and Sherlock shot him a look that was injected with pure venom. John, who had flinched when the floor creaked, had an apology on his lips before Sherlock even looked at him, but he never got to say it out loud.

Just as sudden as the creaking of the floorboard, there was the pounding of footsteps. Sherlock took off like a shot and John was quick after him. Damn these floorboards! Sherlock wouldn't let him live it down!

The chase took them outside and into traffic- traffic, it was always traffic!- but John was already five steps behind Sherlock even before they hit the road. Sherlock was always ahead of him. Sherlock would always be rushing ahead of him, just out of sight but never out of mind-

There was a yell; John froze for half a second before kicking it into overdrive. It wasn't Sherlock's voice, not that John could tell for _sure_, and there was a margin for error, as usual, but-

"Sherlock!"

"Hurry along, John!"

"Don't wait up!" John called in a moment of breathless panic, the sarcasm apparent in his voice.

The chase took them exceedingly close back to Baker Street, which John thought was a stroke of rather good luck. At least they wouldn't have far to go when this chase was over-

Another yell. Not the same as the first.

John's blood _really_ ran cold. "Sherlock!" he called, rounding the corner, his grip too tight on his gun. His knuckles were white, the adrenaline was pounding in his ears, and his heart was in his throat. Threatening to choke him, to kill him, to cut off his life supply, because if something had happened to Sherlock-

"Sherlock!"

"I'm fine, John," came the response, somewhere close up ahead. "Lestrade should have him now- continue up to the end of the road and check. I'll double back and grab the weapon he dropped."

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you sure you're okay?"

But Sherlock had vanished off into some alley, probably one that the fight or scuffle or whatever the hell had happened had happened in. He sounded fine... John didn't trust Sherlock's voice, though, because Sherlock was a master of disguise, after all.

"Sherlock?" There was a new voice, one that John immediately recognized as Lestrade's.

"No, it's John. Did you get the guy?" John questioned, blinking against the sudden light of a flash torch in his face.

"Yep. Where'd Sherlock go?"

"Back to get the weapon."

"The weapon's right here." Lestrade was frowning, looking towards the ground. John followed his gaze to a dagger on the ground, covered in blood. "The blood's fresh, though..."

John froze, literally _froze _this time. Sherlock had said...

"Shit..." he muttered, turning around and going back the way he came.

"John?"

He ignored Lestrade's questions, rounding the corner for the alley. No Sherlock. It led him out to the end of Baker Street. If Sherlock was hurt, Sherlock would just go home, wouldn't he? After seeing to it that he got his criminal where else _would _he go...?

John's footsteps were loud against the silence of the night. Silence was always foreboding.

"Sherlock!"

By the passing chance of a glowing street lamp, John saw the blood illuminated on the ground. Some very unsavoury, very choice words slipped past his lips as he bolted the short distance to 221 Baker Street.

"Sherlock!" he called upon wrenching the exterior door open, eyes flashing towards the stairs. "Sherlock, what happened?"

"I'm fine..."

The two words in themselves were enough to prove to John that Sherlock _was not_ fine. Not to mention the copious amounts of blood staining the carpet.

John took the stairs two at a time, catching Sherlock as he slumped against the hallway wall. "Sherlock! Jeez- Sherlock," he muttered, his eyes zeroing in on the tattered remains of Sherlock's shirt sleeves. The coat was off, although it seemed like Sherlock was trying to press the heavy fabric against his arms. Trying because he looked too pale to do anything properly and his movements were uncoordinated, blood dripping off his fingers in rivulets. "Sherlock," John repeated, his eyes catching sight of Sherlock's- rapidly- bleeding arms when the coat fell to the floor. "Sit down, I'll call 999-"

Sherlock shook his head wildly, stubborn anger flashing in his eyes.

"Sherlock, you've got to-"

"I'm not going..." Sherlock muttered, cutting John off. Despite his weakened state, the blood dripping from his fingers and shirt.

"Sherlock-" John's voice broke as Sherlock moved away, pushing unsteadily away from the wall. He headed into the living room, staggering hard into the doorframe.

"_Not_," Sherlock rasped as he took another step. He stumbled again, something that John had never seen him do, tripping over the lip of the door. He hit his knees hard, the flinch visible even to John from his distance.

"Sherlock, _please_-" he choked, rushing forward to Sherlock's body. He crashed to his own knees, reaching out his hands to grip Sherlock's shoulders.

John had seen death. He had been on the battlefield far too long to not have witnessed it. John knew what death looked like. And, at this moment, death looked like Sherlock.

"No..." Sherlock muttered heavily, his eyelids flickering shut. His posture changed, the last of the _I-give-a-damn-about-my-image_ vanishing as he slumped slightly. John caught him, trying to quelch the panic and, ultimately, failing.

"Sh-Sherlock?!" _Come on, Sherlock, stay with me, damn it, stay with me! You can't leave me, you can't leave me in this forsaken place without you-_

"Just stop..." Sherlock murmured, voice low and drained.

"I can _help_, Sher," his voice snapped and he forced himself to finish the word, the name his saving grace, "lock." He couldn't cry. _He _didn't cry. Not after all of those years in the war. Not after all the death. Most definitely not in front of his flatmate.

"Mmmph..." was the only, grumbled, unintelligible response that John got.

"I don't know- don't know what you're saying there," John muttered, a slight laugh bubbling past his lips. Hysterics. Oh, God, he was going into hysterics. Sherlock was dying and John was trying not to cry and he was going into hysterics. He gripped Sherlock closer.

He should be trying to stop the bleeding, shouldn't he? Yes, yes, he should. He was a doctor; he knew how to handle this. So, why was he not doing it?!

"Speak up," John muttered, raising a hand, stained with Sherlock's blood, to rub at his nose. He would not cry. Not now. Not now, not now, not now...

"... S'rry..."

The one word, barely audible, a breath of air, stopped John Watson's world.

Sherlock Holmes didn't say 'sorry'.

"What- No. No, no, Sherlock, let me, please I won't- won't even take you to the hospital..." That, of course, was a lie. Sherlock was going to need the hospital, but nonetheless, John would take care of him. No matter what, John would take care of him. "I can fix you, I can stop it, I mean," he sniffed again, "what's London without you?"

John removed a hand from one of Sherlock's shoulders, just briefly, reaching back to pull his own jumper off. He had only just gotten it over his arms with some difficulty, seeing as how he was literally holding Sherlock in this position. When, suddenly, he wasn't, because Sherlock slumped further even more, his forehead hitting John's shoulder.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock muttered something, but it was unintelligible, muffled by John's button-down and Sherlock's near-unconsciousness.

"What?" John whispered in return, hugging the detective close to his chest. He thoroughly didn't care what it looked like. There was no one there to see them, anyway.

"... fine..."

John blinked. "F-Fine?" he repeated, unable to believe the words. "You mean, I-" But then he stopped, shaking his head. He wasn't going to give Sherlock the chance to take it back, whatever he had meant that 'fine' to mean. "You know, I don't even know what you mean, but I'm _not_ letting you die..." he muttered, shifting his weight so Sherlock's body didn't slip off when John removed his hands. He grabbed his jumper again and found the frayed end (he liked this jumper... he'd worn it for too long now) before ripping it down the middle.

"... My life's... in y'hands, John Watson..." Sherlock muttered, seeming to almost laugh.

John did not share Sherlock's humour in the situation. He only stayed silent and working on applying pressure to stop the bleeding in Sherlock's arms. With his free hand, he dialed 999, despite how it meant he had lied to Sherlock.

"I need an ambulance at two hundred and twenty-one Baker Street. My flatmate was in some kind of fight, uh, well I wasn't there, but it's a... grade three hemorrhage, grade two or three on WHO scale. Might need a transfusion, I'm not sure; pretty sure that the incision knicked a vein or so, not an artery, though..." He took a deep breath, shivered, when Sherlock moaned against his neck. "Sherlock- stay with me, yeah? You're going to be fine. Fine, Sherlock, do you hear?"

He paused in his work on Sherlock's arms; he'd done a tourniquet, sloppy and most definitely not his best work, but it would work. He heaved Sherlock's body off of his shoulder, holding him at arms length. He was pale, too pale...

"Sherlock? I need you to- open your eyes," he muttered, even though he knew Sherlock probably couldn't hear him. "An ambulance _now_ would be nice," he barked into his mobile, which was wedged between his ear and his shoulder. "Sherlock? Sherlock, we got our guy. Lestrade's probably-"

"John?"

John paused, looking towards the flat door. "Lestrade's probably coming up the stairs now, apparently," he muttered. Sherlock's eyes just fluttered the slightest bit, and John reckoned that Sherlock probably would have put himself into a more dignified position had he been capable.

"John, you took off running, I wondered what happened to-" Lestrade's voice pulled up short as he stepped into the room. "Oh, my God..."

John tossed his phone to Lestrade. Lestrade caught it and glanced at the display, although distracted, before raising it to his ear. "Where is that ambulance?" he barked into the phone before tossing it onto the couch and joining John next to Sherlock. "Do you need anything?"

"Belt," John ordered, not looking away from his detective. "Give me your belt. And talk to him."

Greg didn't argue, only did what he was told.

And, side by side, the two worked over their best friend's bloodied body.

* * *

**Oh, dear. Well, there you go. This is the 'spin off?' of _Sherlock's Trusting_ in _He's Only Ever Human_. You don't need to read that story to understand this, as all of the dialogue is exactly the same, but this has a real story to it. I'm not writing anything from the hospital scene afterwards; there's not that much to say and I'm not particularly happy with this anyway. xD**

**I'm going to shut up and go work on something else I need to be working on. :D Ta!**


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